


3 AM

by captaincuppy



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Blood, Creepy shit, Ed Is Also A Dickhead Because He Fucks Up The Plot Of 2x08, M/M, Oswald Is A Dickhead Even As A Ghost, Poltergeists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9424556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincuppy/pseuds/captaincuppy
Summary: A twisted tale about a murderer and the haunting shadows of a parallel universe.





	

The night Edward Nygma buries his dead love and an innocent man, darkness falls with dust sparkling in the moonlight, shadows shallow and grey.

The metallic clink of the door echoes in the empty flat. Ed pushes it open with his shoulder.

His shadow is slender, rushing over the walls. Beams of light are pulsing from the buzzing neon signs, breaking through the dirty windows. Ed steps to the lashed-together couch, putting the bag and the shovel on it. He doesn’t even loosen his coat or take his hat off as he starts unpacking.

He takes the remains of Miss Kringle’s last supper out of the fridge. The wine glasses glisten dimly in the moonlight as he knocks them on the table.

The bloodrush is still fogging his mind; it keeps him wide awake and alive. He doesn’t need the lights on to see. Senses sharp and raw, the dry blood on the plate looks like a slit.

Ed takes his gloves off and scratches the blood with his nail. It doesn’t seem to come off, not from the plate, nor from the wine glass he poured for Kristen.

Ed frowns and sighs, taking the glasses and plates to the sink.

He turns the tap. The hot water is steaming in the half-light, the dish soap coats Ed’s hands with foam. He starts scrubbing.

It seems like the blood only taints the glass more with each and every move. Ed squints at it, blaming the late hour for hallucinating. The more water pours onto the glass, the more it bleeds.

Ed’s heart starts racing. He tries to clean it with more aggressive, faster movements, only getting blood on his hands, too. 

He drops the wine glass. He fumbles for the light switch, turning the light on.

It’s real blood. Fresh and thick, venous blood.

Remembering the vague memory of a childhood tale, he snatches his bloody hand to his mouth and starts giggling.

The soft sound loudens, twists and turns into closed-eyed, manic laughing. Ed throws his head back and lets his voice raise, coming deep from his chest.

He was a fool for thinking it could be over.

 

He’s laying on his side, slightly disturbing images interweaving in his mind: he’s dreaming about manhunt and murder, following the path of blood and wet dirt. The scent fills his nose and lungs as he stops to catch his breath, looking around with a flashlight in hand.

He finds nothing.

 

_ Drip. Drip. Drip. Something’s dripping. _

_ Drip. Drip. Drip. You didn’t turn off the tap. _

_ Drip. Drip. Drip. Get up and take care of it. _

Ed turns around and opens his eyes. He gasps and tries to move; his muscles are cramped, blood freezing in his veins. He’s paralyzed, kept down by a shadowy figure hovering above him.

At first, it all seems to be pitch dark. Then, the depth sharpens: there are still greys and silvers, except for the figure that seems to avoid all light. It’s not smoky, nor blurry - just a silhouette, but Ed can feel its pressure as it sits on his chest, dropping on its knees. A whole body’s pressure.

_ Drip. Drip. Drip. _

There’s thick blood dripping from the dark, falling into Ed’s open mouth. The metallic taste makes him sick and dizzy; the drops run across his tongue, rippling down the back of his throat.

Then, he hears it. Hears the heavy breathing of a man, the whispered wish that sounds muffled and raspy like white noise:

_ “Help me. Please.” _

Blood fills his mouth, and he’s drowning.

He awakens with a loud gasp. It’s dawning outside.

 

He brushes the blood’s taste out of his mouth. It doesn’t help. 

His espresso’s strong flavor is still tainted with it.

Ed spits the sip into the sink, and pours the rest of coffee into it, too. He glances at the wine glass he left in there yesterday night. It’s crystal clear. Of course it is.

He’s had sleep paralysis before. It’s just never felt so intense. So real. Like a memory he erased.

 

On the second night, there’s silence. Dark and hollow silence, eating all the buzz and rumble of the outside world. Ed is laying awake, circles under his eyes, tongue numb and dry.

His heart is racing, waiting for the nightmare to come and embrace him.

Nothing happens.

He waits until 2 AM, then calms down and closes his eyes.

 

He’s woken by the sound of uneven steps. Ed shuts his eyes more, trying to cradle himself back into a dreamless sleep.

The steps are closing in, then fading. It’s like someone’s circling in the room, aimlessly, slowly. The shuffling makes Ed believe that the man has some sort of limp that needs to be dragged around.

Once again, it’s getting too real to not believe there’s an intruder in the flat. Ed shifts to see more, cursing himself for not keeping any weapons near the bed.

His eyes get used to the dark. Without glasses, everything is blurry, but he should still see the silhouette if there was anyone inside.

Any living creature, at least.

The shuffling comes closer again. It sounds like someone passing by the bed, then wobbling towards the kitchen again. The wooden floor creaks, and there’s fading muttering.

Ed tries to calm his mind and chest, thinking about logical explanations. He’s familiar with voices and souls without bodies haunting him, figments of imagination, feeding off desire and fear and doubt. They always feel real. They’re always confusing. This is no different-

His cell phone starts ringing. It’s all too loud and sudden, startling him. The phone is buzzing and vibrating on the night stand: Ed snatches it without thinking about it, flipping it out and staring at the screen.

There’s no phone number, not an Unknown number warning.

Ed swallows dry. His thumb is hovering above the button, hesitant to accept the call.

He pushes it and lifts the phone closer to his ear, fingers cold and shaky.

“Hello?”

There’s the same white noise buzzing as with yesterday’s paralysis, louder this time. At the same time, the door of the refrigerator bursts open with an ear-piercing bang, then slams. The phone falls out of Ed’s hand.

He grabs the sheets and asks again, raising his voice:

“...Hello?”

No answer. He picks the phone up; the line is dead.

The voices of fumbling and creaking stopped.

There’s nothing but his own heaving breath, cutting through the silence - then, his scream.

“Leave me alone!”

 

The third night seems to be quiet and serene, just like the second one.

Exhaustion wants to chase Ed into bed early, but he doesn’t want to obey. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, leaving Kristen’s glasses on the nightstand and her glass, filled with red wine.

The circles are getting darker and deeper around his baggy eyes. He had been working late, and thought about spending the night in the GCPD. It would’ve been the decision of the coward and the weak.

If she wants to haunt him, Ed decided he won’t back down. If it’s nothing but his conscience trying to trick him, he’ll find out tonight.

Ed takes a deep breath and glances at the clock. 2:58 AM. In two minutes, he’ll have his answers.

What disturbs Ed the most is that the story doesn’t add up. He’s missing a clue. The weight of the body - not Miss Kringle’s. The shuffling steps - not hers. The blood on the glass - couldn’t be.

He reaches out for the glass and takes another sip of wine.

He spits it out immediately. Blood. It’s blood again-

It’s 3 AM. Ed swallows the blood and opens his mouth, trying to reduce his shaky breath.

His whisper is no louder than the blowing wind.

“Miss Kringe?”

Immediately, there’s an answer: loud crunching and cracking from the nightstand. Ed glances at it, only to see Miss Kringle’s glasses turn into shattered, shining dust like someone crushed them with all their might.

Ed leans back and licks his lips, gaining strength to speak up:

“Alright. Alright. You’re not her. I understand.”

Silence. Whoever they are, they don’t want to answer - or keep up the conversation. Ed tries again:

“Who are you, then?”

No reply. Ed translates the silence to sulking, which makes it easier to keep calm and continue speaking on a lower voice:

“Who are you? Do I know you?”

The gramophone starts playing a record by itself. At first, Ed can’t decide what’s so off about it, then the tune loudens and he realizes that it’s playing backwards. The eerie sound creeps over his spine, making him quiver.

He steps out of the bed, slowly approaching the megaphone to check the record.

“I can’t hear it well like this. I need you to be more specific.”

The cupboard bangs open. Ed startles and turns towards the kitchen. There’s clattering, and a knife is thrown out of it, flying towards Ed. He suppresses his instincts and doesn’t move: the knife stops by his neck, then clatters down onto the floor.

Ed gasps and grabs the couch for balance. His guest is dangerous and unpredictable. He must be more careful.

“Apologies,” he breathes and adjusts his glasses. “Did I stand too close?”

As he says the last words, it feels like he’s hearing himself from the outside. That last sentence echoes in his mind, bringing up distant memories. His chest tightens.

“Oh dear.” He licks his lips again and straightens his spine. His voice is weaker than ever. “Mr. Penguin?”

Ed’s throat dries as his mind quickly connects the missing pieces: the phantom of the woods, leaving a bloody path, the distorted voice on the first haunted night. He was too careless. He thought it was nothing but a wounded animal; nothing but a witness he could let bleed out and die.

So he… he let him bleed out and die.

Ed grabs the couch again and sits down with trembling legs. He slides his palm to his forehead and closes his eyes.

“Did I solve it?” he pants. “Did I figure it out? Was that you? Did I-”

The silent sobbing comes from the bed, the sheets rustling. Ed keeps his eyes closed, mumbling quicker and louder:

“Did I kill you? I should have followed you. Did I kill you? Is that why you’re here? To torture me, kill me, make me pay? For revenge? For apology? To drive me crazy? You’re too late, my feathered friend. You’re too late. And I am too. A man walks into the woods to be forgiven by one, and forgets one. Now he can’t be forgiven. What are you haunting me with? What are all these-”

The whispering sounds like he’d lean close to Ed’s ear, cruel and low.

_ “Memories. And they’re like daggers in my heart.” _

**Author's Note:**

> My amazing beta was [[esoterrible]](http://esoterrible.tumblr.com/)  
>  Find me on tumblr as [[captaincuppy]](http://captaincuppy.tumblr.com/)  
>  Thank you very much for reading! ♥  
> 


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